Slap
by Psychicsniper
Summary: Detective Paul is bored... bored enough to play games with his MX-43


It was slow. The whole damn week was slow. At least for Detective Richard Paul it was. Valerie and John had cases, and were in and out of the office every few hours. He hadn't gotten a call out since Monday morning, and it was Friday. "Note to self: Don't fuck a dispatcher, then not call her in the morning," he mumbled to himself.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. He stared at the ceiling. "1….2….3….," he began counting the ceiling tiles quietly to himself, just as he had done for the last three days of his involuntary and unnecessary desk assignment.

Richard's MX-43 stared at him from the chair beside the desk. "There are 40 ceiling tiles, Detective Paul." 609 said.

Richard gave 609 a stare out of the corner of his eye. "Just making sure it hasn't changed."

609 stared at him, red lines dancing on his fair cheekbones. "There is no record of any modification to the ceiling tiles of this building. Therefore, I can confirm that the number of ceiling tiles has not changed since yesterday at the same time."

"You sure?" Richard replied. Any conversation no matter how juvenile was better than mind numbing boredom.

"I can say with 99.9999999 percent certainty that the number of ceiling tiles above us is equal to the number of ceiling tiles present yesterday," 609 said.

Richard couldn't argue with that. Hell, arguing with an MX-43 was stupid, regardless of the subject matter. It reminded him of a time he saw a young woman arguing with a traffic patrol MX. She was waving her arms, and screaming at him, "It was yellow, damn it!"

The MX just stared at her. "You have been issued a ticket-"

She started yelling again, "IT WAS YELLOW!"

"You have been issued a ticket for a moving violation. You drove through a red light. Your fine is two hundred for-"

"YELLOW!"

"You have been issued a ticket-"

"YELLOW!"

The exchange went on for the good part of fifteen minutes before a human showed up to "assist" his MX-43, after the woman attempted to slap the MX. She succeeded in slapping the MX, but apparently didn't realize that slapping carbon fibre hurt. A lot.

Richard was watching the event unfold from his seat outside a coffee shop. He was laughing to himself, so much so that he forgot how hot his coffee was, and burned his tongue. Sonofa bitch.

Richard smirked to himself. Slapping. He looked at 609. His smirk got wider.

Richard quickly looked around the office. Everyone was gone. He looked back at 609. "Lets play a game."

If 609's face could express emotion, he would have looked very confused. But an order is an order.

"Put your hands out." 609 obediently put his hands out, palms facing up. Richard took 609's hands and turned them upside down, and put his hands palms up underneath them.

Richard quickly pulled his hands from beneath 609's and slapped the backs of 609's hands. "You lose."

609 stared at Richard. "I do not understand."

"You slap the other person's hands." Richard repositioned 609's hands palms facing up. He put his palms facing down over 609's hands. 609's hands moved to slap Richards, but Richard pulled his hands away. "The other person can move their hands, you lose again. Try again."

Richard placed his hands palms up, and 609 placed his hands palms down. Richard moved to slap 609's hands, in an attempt to fake him out. 609 didn't flinch at all. Richard should have known right then, that it was not going to end well. 609 was much smarter than a can opener.

He moved his hands in a complete motion to slap 609's hands, and 609 moved them swiftly out of the way, causing Richard to slap the desk, rather forcefully. Sonofa Bitch.

"You lose, Detective Paul."

Not accepting being beaten by an MX, Richard reset his hands palms down. 609 settled his palms beneath Richard's.

With lightning speed, 609 successfully slapped the back of Richard's hands. Almost too forcefully. Sonofa Bitch. "You lose, Detective Paul."

" Detective Paul, you are aware that the MXs have reflexes that are about 15 times faster than yours, right?" rang a familiar voice.

Trying to ignore the stinging in his hands he turned around to see Dorian and John. Both had the same shit-eating grin on their faces. John almost couldn't contain his laughter. "Beaten by a toaster. New low, Richard."

"Would you like to play again?" 609 asked, with what sounded like some form of innocence.

Richard growled. "No, damn it. Coffee. Now."

609 arose from his perch beside the desk and asked, "Two sugars?"

This only seemed to make Richard more irritated. "You seem agitated, Detective Paul. This will be your fourth cup of coffee. Some of the side effects of caffeine are; rapid heart rate, increased urine output and agitation. According to my sensors, you are experiencing all of these side effects at this moment. I suggest decaffeinated coffee."

At that point, John was laughing so hard that he was about to have excessive urine output.

"Real coffee. Two sugars. Get. It. Now." Richard growled, looking up at 609, more so than usual.

"Of course, Detective Paul." 609 replied. 609 then walked calmly off to the break room.

The unique "ahem" of Captain Maldonado came from the side of the bullpen. "If you're done, Paul, dead body, possible homicide in Kingston Heights. Dispatch has been paging you for over an hour."

Richard shot up from his desk, "On my way," He said. "Once I take a leak." He mumbled to himself.

"Your coffee, Detective Paul." 609 said while placing the cup on the desk.

"Forget it. We've got a call."

"Detective Paul, I suggest that you evacuate your bladd-"

"Shut up. I'll meet you in the motor pool." He growled as he half jogged to the bathroom.

Just after 609 was out of sight down the hallway, and Captain Maldonado was safely back in her office. Dorian turned to John and asked, "Wanna play a game?"

John gave Dorian an irritated stare. "No."


End file.
